


Untitled

by LaVoileBlanche



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: And R likes to look after him, Because I have a weakness, Guys the title is a reference to the uncertainty of their relationship, M/M, Modern Era, Running-himself-into-the-ground-Enjolras is my kryptonite, Sleepy!Jolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:48:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaVoileBlanche/pseuds/LaVoileBlanche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Erm, yeah. So Rayne (icouldfallmadlyinbedwithyou.tumblr.com) requested cuddles and stuff and I absolutely could not resist so I did a thing. I have a very serious weakness for barricade boys of all variety, but these two in particular make me want to roll off a cliff.</p></blockquote>





	Untitled

Weariness is like a tide under your skin, pushing and pulling your bones, dragging and releasing like waves on a beachfront. With every beat that washes over you you feel a part of your focus drift away like grains of sand, tugged by the current of your mind’s pleas for rest. It gets increasingly difficult to ignore, but you do it anyway, because sleep does not come easy and there are better things to do than toss and turn for hours trying to steal into dreaming. The edges of your laptop screen are starting to blur, but that’s fine, it’s fine; you’re good for a couple more hours, at least. You blink away the heaviness in your eyelids resolutely, and experience has told you it will creep back in in only minutes, but you set your shoulders stubbornly, determined not to let you body win this fight.  _Bigger problems_ , you think, and hope your tired muscles understand. But you catch yourself slipping again, moments later, fingers drifting away from your laptop keys without your permission, your eyes sliding closed, and you only snap back into wakefulness when Grantaire’s voice comes from behind you. You think that you must be really out of it, if he’s managed to sneak up on you.

“Enjolras, what are you doing?” He asks. You don’t turn around. It has more to do with the fact that you’re 80% sure you’ll topple out of your chair if you try to than an express desire to avoid Grantaire’s disapproving expression, but he doesn’t need to know that, even if you can’t actually read the words on the screen anymore. You respond with something that should be “Working”, but comes out as a largely-unintelligible mumble. Your thoughts seem strangely clouded and heavy, and you accept, reluctantly, that maybe you should sleep. Grantaire seems to be under the same impression.

“And is there any way this work could wait ‘til morning?” He steps up close behind you chair and leans in, peering over your shoulder to check the time on your desktop’s clock, and then sighs, pulling back to rest his forehead against your shoulder for just a moment. “Well, later on in the morning, at least.” He mutters, straightening again.

Last time you looked at the clock it was had just gone half eleven, but you guess a lot of time must have passed since then. You realise, with some surprise, that you’ve probably been locked in the study for almost three full days, coffee breaks aside. With the realisation, your tiredness seems to double, and you slump inwards in defeat, breathing a sigh. Grantaire must sense your resignation, because he puts one hand on each of your shoulders, and squeezes comfortingly, pressing his lips to your hair as well. You lean into his touch without even thinking about it, and you think you would be quite content to just sleep here, at your desk, but Grantaire is pulling away, ignoring your noise of objection.

“Come on, Apollo. Bed.” He says, and you can’t refuse him, not with your eyelids dropping and your thoughts all out of order in your head, even though you know you still have work to do. You stand, pushing the chair back with your knees, and stumble as the blood rushes away from your head. Grantaire’s hands come up to steady you without hesitation, and while the black fuzziness at the edge of your vision fades, he wraps one of his arms firmly around your waist, and brings one of yours to rest across his shoulders so you can lean on him. He is a warm, familiar form pressed against yours, and you lean into him, breathing in his oil-paint-and-Irish-coffee scent as he half-carries you out of the room. You trust in the strength he’s worked hard at, boxing with Bahorel to gain, and you aren’t afraid he’ll let you fall.

You’re almost dead on your feet, pressed against him, so when you reach the bedroom that you sometimes share, and he pushes you gently to sit on the bed, you comply, and you don’t even object when he goes on his knees in front of you and peels off first your shoes, and then the socks beneath. You think, distantly, that he looks especially beautiful right now, with moonlight creeping in though the slats of your blinds and spilling across his cheekbones. He catches you looking, and a quiet, fond smile spreads across his face as he leans in to kiss you chastely, and then stands, again, to tug the soft fabric of your shirt over your head. His hands move to unbutton your jeans, but there’s nothing sexual in this, even though his fingers skim your ribs and send a shiver up your spine.

When you are in nothing but your boxers, you slide further up the bed, as docile as a child, and he pulls the covers over you when your head hits the pillow. He kisses you, again, - this time his lips are light against your temple - and he murmurs a quiet, “Goodnight,” into your skin, and he makes to leave, and suddenly, you are aware that you do not want him to, and your fingers fumble their way out from under the duvet and close around his wrist, and he turns back to you, confused. And you don’t really know what this is, this beautiful, fragile thing where you admire him in the moonlight and share his coffee, and invite him into your home and your bed and tell him secret things no-one but Combeferre knows, but you know that you have to trust in it, though your voice sounds strangely vulnerable as you say, “Stay.”

And the way he looks at you, for a long moment, fills you with dread, because you’re sure you have ruined it, now, but then the moment passes, and he shakes off your grasp and toes out of his boots, slowly, and shrugs out of his green jacket, slinging it over your red one on the back of a chair, and he lies down on his side next to you, and you can breathe again. You study his features, and you don’t know what to say but you want to say  _something_  - until he sighs, and his arms wrap around you, and pull you in close to his chest. “Go to sleep, Enjolras.” He says, and you can feel the vibration of his words through his thin grey shirt, and you breathe him in, all solidity and comfort and care, and it seems very easy, then, to close your eyes, and let his arms cradle you as you slip into unconsciousness.

**Author's Note:**

> Erm, yeah. So Rayne (icouldfallmadlyinbedwithyou.tumblr.com) requested cuddles and stuff and I absolutely could not resist so I did a thing. I have a very serious weakness for barricade boys of all variety, but these two in particular make me want to roll off a cliff.


End file.
